The Maltese Falcon Job Tag
by everybetty
Summary: As titled, a tag for the end of The Maltese Falson Job for a Help Japan donor on LJ. My first Leverage story so concrit welcome.  Thanks to astridv and kristen999 for their beta efforts.


Sam is eight years old. He likes – no, loves SpongeBob SquarePants. The bright yellow poriferan with the sunny disposition and his son had practically grown up together. Baby Sam had been entranced by the goings on in Bikini Bottom and had spent his toddler years running about with a small fish net, trying to catch jellyfish and blowing bubbles on summer days. When the hospital visits started, every checkup and every night spent was with a stuffed yellow square tucked under his arm.

Even by age eight, still a child but struggling with grown up thoughts no eight year old should ever have, the stuffed toy stays at his side most of the time, even if he sometimes makes an effort to hide him when the doctors and nurses show up. As if he should be ashamed to have something – someone – to cling to in the maelstrom he's caught up in.

But where is SpongeBob? Sam is alone, so small, so pale, lost against white sheets. People swarm around him, all in white, so much white. Where is the sunny yellow? Where is the sun? His son... there's machines beeping and people swarming and talking. Faces covered in masks. Sam is fading, fading into the sheets, into shadow, until all there is left is beeping, no sun…his son…

Nate wakes up, feels that jolt that says he's moved from one reality to another. He's woken from this dream a hundred times or more, and every time it takes a few minutes for his heart to stop racing, for the dull ache to settle over his head and into his temples.

But this time, it's different. His heart doesn't slow and the drumming in his skull is so hard he feels the bed rocking with each pulse. Nausea curls up from his belly, acid tickles at the back of his throat.

There's a bottle of Bushmills in his bedside table; it's the only thing that will cut the taste of bile in his mouth and smooth out the ragged edges, quiet the drums.

He moves an arm towards the drawer, swallowing back his rising gorge. It's been this bad… before. But not recently. Things had been… better. He thought.

His hand hits metal; the clang sends reverberations through his pounding head, turns up the slow burn in his gut. And the beeping – the beeping hasn't stopped.

He takes in a tentative deep breath. The smell hits him, hard. It's not a dream. He can still smell rubbing alcohol and bleach. Antibacterial soap. Hospital smells.

"Sam?" he croaks. Sam is gone, he knows that. Right? His son is gone, but Nate is still here, in a hospital.

A chill runs through him as he runs a hand along the icy metal rail at his side. He's felt this rail before, too. Had stood next to it, gripping it with white knuckles as Sam had moaned in pain.

His own moans join those of his phantom child. The rail burns cold under his hand and he shudders again.

The beeping speeds up, along with his heart. The monitors had whined their claxon calls and people had come running, pushed him out of the way and through the doors. He'd been left alone to watch through a scratched and filmy plexiglass window as his son drew his final, agonizing breaths.

Maggie's hand had joined his. Before. Come running from a meeting with a specialist, her hair loose and plastered to her face in spots, her eyes wild. He hadn't had to say a word as they stood together while their son slipped away from them.

A slight breeze blows across his skin, kicking up the shivers that washed over him in waves. Then a hand, cool, but so much warmer than the metal under his fingers pulls his grip free and places it next to him.

"Open your eyes, Mr. Ford."

His brow wrinkles in confusion. They are open; he can see the white sheets and banks of monitors.

"Open your eyes," comes the command again.

Something hard digs into his sternum and the unexpected pain makes his eyes spring open. A face stares down at him. Eyes framed by heavy lines, a cap of iron gray hair.

"Wh—" He only gets out the breathy exhale, the words 'who, what, where' bouncing in his head but not making it to his tongue.

"Secure ward, St Agnes," comes the terse reply, Gray Hair picking the one she's guessed at to answer.

Secure ward… it all comes flooding back, swelling like a tidal wave over him. He starts to close his eyes with a moan, the sound turning into a yelp as the knuckle digs once more into his chest.

"Ow."

The wrinkles turn to crinkles as she allows a small smile. "It's supposed to hurt. Gotta make sure you wake up from the anesthesia."

"'M awake."

Had there been any doubt, when the blankets get pulled away and her hands start pawing at his stomach, he goes rigid with cold, sucking in a gasp at each poke and prod. He cranes his neck, plants his chin in his chest and looks down, convinced there must be a chasm running through his middle. Instead he sees that Kadjic's bullet hole has been covered with a six by six square of bloodstained gauze. A length of tubing hangs oddly, disconcertingly out of his side. It looks fake and it's only when Gray Hair tugs on it and he feels that tug deep within him that he realizes it's not stuck to him, it's stuck _in_ him.

By the time she's done handling all the other tubes in him before bustling out the door to tend to her next charge he's beginning to wish he'd never been woken up. His world is pain and cold, but surprisingly, the thing that frightens him most is the gaping maw of the future ahead of him.

When he'd placed the call to Sterling – a man he remembers as being the voice at the end of the first phone call he'd placed after losing Sam, when Sterling was still _Jim_ – he'd been out of his mind with worry for the family he was going to lose all over again.

This phone call had been decidedly different from the other.

Turning state's evidence against Kadjic wouldn't earn him any friends in lockup. And he sincerely doubts that Sterling would be making any offers of soft Federal spa stays or making any arrangements for special treatment once he was thrown in Max.

He pulls the blanket up to his chin and struggles to lie as still as possible but the shuddering won't let that happen.

His team would be safe. He knows he can count on Sophie to mother hen them all together, on Eliot to keep them all safe. On Hardison to secure their new home – if they all stayed together.

The thought jars him worse than any bullet wound could.

Would they stay a team – a family? Would they carry on without him or break off to the four corners of the globe, back to whatever jobs, cons and missions they'd been working before Dubenich had brought them all together.

A sound, distant but insistent, interrupts his morbid reverie. The hospital has a hum of background noise, quiet conversations and the cadence of monitor blips but this is something different. Humming. Annoyingly off key. And there's the clatter of something that draws closer to his bed.

A black man in gray orderly's coveralls approaches, his head down, ear buds firmly in place as his head bops in time with unheard music. With each beat he shoves a plastic bucket and mop forward with his foot.

Nate sighs at the annoyance and begins to close his eyes again, ready to re-board his morose train of thought when the janitor raises his head.

The nametag says Rudy but the smile above it is pure Hardison.

Joy at the familiar face is immediately supplanted by fear for his friend's presence. Nate darts a look at the door, expecting to see Sterling leaning against the jamb, jingling his handcuffs with greedy anticipation.

Hardison pulls the ear buds free, his smile widening. "S'all good, Nate," he says as he pulls his _gifted_ phone – better than a smart phone – from the pocket of his coveralls. He waves it proudly in the air. "I scheduled a staff meeting for all nonessentials, set off a few call buttons down the hall, and set off an exit door alarm. Guards, nurses, docs all busy. And if they're not… according to their records, Rudy's been working here for over a year now. He's a stellar employee, never missed a day."

"Hardison…" His voice is still raspy and weak but he tries to put the team leader back in his voice. "It's not that I'm not happy to see you but I went to a lot of trouble to get you guys clear. I appreciate the visit, but you need to go. Now."

The hacker sucks his teeth and shakes his head. "Now, Nate, I went to a lot of trouble to get us in here so—"

"Us?"

"Well, yeah, us." He sighs and cocks his head. Hisses 'us' more firmly. There's a little yelp from the hall and Parker rounds the corner, wearing scrubs and pushing a cart of covered dishes.

She smiles and pulls at her ponytail. "Sorry. Missed my cue. Hi, Nate." She turns to Hardison and furrows her brow. "I didn't think I had a cue."

"You didn't. That was why I was – never mind."

"Parker, hi, Hardison, please take her and go."

"But we just got here." Parker pouts for the briefest of moments then her face brightens. "I have food!" she announces as she lifts the lid of the nearest dish. Something brown next to something green, its other neighbor white. On top is a roll so small and hard it belonged at Fenway.

He grins, tightly, at the offer, but only to hold back the bile rising in his throat. "Close it, Parker," he manages to get out between gritted teeth.

Confusion dances across her face before she looks away and puts the lid back. "Sorry."

Nate sighs, remorse adding to the pounding in his head. "Don't suppose you have anything else – think I'm on a um, liquid diet."

Hardison rolls his eyes. "Yeah, Nate. We brought whiskey to a man just out of surgery. In case Kadjic's bullet didn't do the trick."

A silence more uncomfortable than he feels settles over the room. Nate's feeling worse by the second, and it isn't only due to the waning anesthesia and pain meds.

He tries pinning on a smile but he hasn't worn one in a long time; it feels wrong, it's too hard. And he's too damn tired.

"Look—"

"Ooh!" Parker's squeal saves him from what he wasn't sure would be an apology or a banishment. It leaves him with a weary "what?"

"Laughter is the best medicine," she intones with her best attempt at a serious face. "I think that was Ziggy. Or maybe Family Circus. When Billy… or was it Jeffy –"

"Parker!" This time it's Hardison who steps in.

"Knock knock," she continues without a beat.

"I'm not really in the—" He can't finish the sentence. The girlish expression of joy falters and he can't be the one to do that. "Fine. Who's there?"

"Orange."

The joke is older than Nate and he seems to recall telling it in a different form to Sam, a lifetime ago. But he mans up and musters an "Orange who?"

"Orange you glad I didn't say banana?"

There's a loud groan from the other side of the curtain that divides the room and that he just now notices. Before he can utter an apology or freak out that they aren't alone – both battle for first place on his fuzzy tongue- he hears, "Damn it, Hardison! I told you not to teach Parker your stupid jokes."

Eliot emerges from behind the curtain, clad in the same type of silly flowered gown that Nate wears. He's limping, and white gauze bandages peek out from below the hem of the johnny on one thigh, but he seems otherwise fine. Eliot fine, at least. He carries a pile of clothes in his arms.

It should surprise him that Parker and Hardison _aren't _surprised, but it doesn't.

"What the hell?" he manages to croak out. Three of the team that he'd tried so hard to dismiss from his screwed up life are standing in the same room. In the same _guarded_ room. And all wanted fugitives.

"I figure I don't have much time," Eliot says, so nonchalantly. He darts a look at the hacker who pecks at his tablet before nodding. "Your prints haven't made it into the system yet. But I can't hold up IAFIS much longer from this thing."

"You had to mess with the whole frickin federal system, Hardison?" Eliot growls. "Couldn't you just've put a… bug.. virus… thing… with the local cops?"

"Well, you didn't tell me what kind of crime you were gonna commit, so I covered all the bases. Unless, of course, you went international… which I wouldn't put past you."

Eliot ignores him, walks up to Nate's side and prods him in the shoulder. "Gut shot, huh? They hurt like a bitch."

Nate accepts what passes for sympathy and a tender gesture from his hitter. "Yes. Thank you, Eliot. I won't ask what, but how?"

Eliot's grin is feral but genuine. "Hardest part was getting them to shoot me."

"Hardison did his type-y thing to make sure they routed Eliot here and then… here," Parker pipes in with a wave of her hand at their deluxe accommodations.

"My type-y thing? Parker, I don't call what you do your thief-y thing."

"Yes, you do."

He's working up the energy to bark at them when Eliot pokes him again. "So, really. How are you doing?" Eliot says low and soft.

"I'll live," Nate replies shortly.

"You weren't in that bed, I'd be beating the snot outa you."

Nate pulls away to look at his friend's face. Eliot's expressions generally run the full spectrum from stern to grim, but his gaze is steady and hard.

"I'm serious, Nate. What you're doing… it isn't right."

"Actually, that's exactly what it is. I'm coming clean, spilling my guts, prepared to do my time…" He runs out of breath, continues with a roll of his IV stabbed hand.

"You really expect that to be okay with us?"

"Yeah!" Parker chimes in.

"Nate, man… this was a really stupid plan. If you planned it at all."

"Et tu, Hardison?"

"Hell yeah, me _tu_. Can't believe you'd go behind our backs like this. Shoot, you're the Brutus."

"Caesar died, but Mark Antony was left to live, to run off to be with the woman he loved."

"That what you think we'd all do, Nate? Run off for greener pastures while you're stuck in a cell someplace?"

The voice is molten gold and cold steel. He turns to see Sophie framed in the doorway. She's wearing an absurdly old-fashioned nurse's outfit, complete with white cap pinned on a tight bun. The image stirs him, under the sheets, and he squirms a little. But the icy glare she's pinning him with helps cool him down. Fast.

"Soph—"

"Don't you Sophie me, Nathan Ford." She strides into the room and grabs a hold of the rail along his bed. She leans in close enough he can smell her perfume. It's Chanel, not Number 5, no run of the mill scent for Ms Devereaux. One of the more obscure ones; she'd always refused to tell him which.

Hardison whistles low, shakes his head. "You're in real trouble now, Nate."

"Yes, Hardison. Because almost dying of a gunshot wound and turning myself in to the Feds wasn't real trouble."

"Not Sophie kind of trouble, nope."

"Go easy on him, Sophie," Parker stage whispers. "He's not looking so hot."

Sophie's face softens a little and she lays a hand on Nate's brow. Her hand moves down his cheek, so hot it almost burns and leaves a trail of glowing embers that fade out all too soon.

"You are warm, Nate."

"No, not really," Nate answers, a shudder rippling through his body as evidence. "Pretty damn cold."

"It's normal to be cold after surgery," Eliot says. "They keep the theaters cold and surgical drapes and these things aren't exactly cozy," he adds with a pluck at the gown he wears. His words are reassuring but his brow is little more furrowed than normal. His hand starts to reach out before dropping to his side – for a brief moment Nate would swear he was going to touch his forehead, just to check for himself.

Sophie doesn't seem to notice. She busies herself with pulling the blanket up higher and tucking it in before smoothing out some wrinkles.

Nate sighs with the added warmth, the gesture and the blanket.

Sophie's face hardens a little before she says, "Don't think this means you're getting out of anything, Nate." But she relents a little, pats at her bun and straightens her cap. "I'll just wait until you're a little better."

"So when do we break him out?" Parker asks.

"We don't," Nate says firmly.

Hardison ignores him. "Once he's done with recovery they'll move him, by ambulance, to the infirmary in the detention center where he'll be held until the trial. I think our best option is during transport."

"No, no, that's no good, man," Eliot answers with a shake of his head. "That's when they'll expect it. Sterling'll make sure he's got at least two escort cars, advance and rear guard."

"What about once he's in the infirmary?" Parker suggests. "I mean, we got in here okay."

"No, once he's in the detention center, he'll be under constant guard and surveillance. I suppose I could set up a little something with the warden… Chairwoman of a prisoners' rights committee?" Sophie muses.

"Nope, not gonna happen," Hardison says emphatically. "Once he's in the detention center, I'm out. Think there's enough brothers behind bars – not looking to join them."

"Eliot could get himself into prison with Nate."

"Why do I have to be the one to get thrown in prison, Parker? I already let them shoot me. Why can't Hardison get arrested?"

"Excuse me, were you not listening? Besides, they shot you in the leg – think what they'd do to me. Nuh uh."

"Damn it!" Nate hisses. "None of you are listening. No plans, no con, no break out!" He struggles to sit up but falls back with a groan at the pain it ramps up. He takes a few calming breaths and doesn't protest when Sophie pulls the blanket back into place.

When he finally manages to open his eyes he sees four more pair staring back at him. The collective weight of their concern is more than he can bear.

A part of him knows that what he's asking of them is just as hard to deal with as the uncertain future he had to face. But he'd ultimately gotten them into this mess, and it was his job to get them all out.

"I meant it, when I said you were my family. And I know that asking you to let me go isn't what you want. But tough. As my last act of head of this family, I am ordering you to let it be. Let this final plan reach its final stage."

He sees them all readying to protest again, and his heart aches, more than the wound in his gut. He really only has one last worry left, and selfish or not, he needs to voice it.

"I will ask one last thing."

"What is it, Nate?" Sophie asks, her voice tight.

"Promise me you'll all stay in touch. Wherever you wind up, please don't let this be the last time you talk to each other."

"Wind up?" Parker asks as she looks at the group. "Where are we going?"

There isn't an answer… just questioning glances and an uneasy silence.

That silence is broken by a muted trill from Hardison's pocket. He pulls his phone free and taps at the screen, starts shaking his head. "Quantico's got some new players – they're better than I thought. El-"

"Yeah, that's my cue." Eliot raps Nate in the shoulder and points at him. "Order or not, this isn't over, Nate. We're not leaving you to rot in some jail cell. We've helped a lot of people in tough situations. This one's just a little tougher than most. You take care of yourself."

He limps towards the bathroom, his clothes in one arm. "Like it or not, Nate, we've got your back," he calls over his shoulder.

"Yeah, um, speaking of backs, Eliot, your uh –"

"It's an ass, Hardison," Eliot growls back. "Everybody's got one."

As the bathroom door closes Parker mutters, "Not like that one."

Hardison's eyebrows launch into orbit and he begins to splutter. "Excuse you? What's he got that I –"

Nate would find it humorous if he hadn't heard Sophie's softly whispered, "Indeed."

Before he can say anything over Parker and Hardison's squabbling, Sophie's attentions are back on him.

She leans close- she's radioactive with warmth, her breath hot in his ear. "Your ego has actually grown larger than your brain, Nathan Ford. To think we couldn't exist as a team without your presence. To think you can order any of us to stop working on your freedom. To think you can push us away – me, away. After we get you out, and mark my words, it will happen, you and I are going to have a long overdue conversation. You can't take back that phone call, Nate, much as you may wish you could."

He feels water, boiling hot, hit his cheek. "You let me slap you, Nate. You were dying and you let me slap you."

She pulls back and wipes the tears on her cheeks. "If you won't do it for yourself, do it for me. For us. Help us get you out."

Eliot comes out of the bathroom, wearing his street clothes, a doctor's white coat over them. There is no sign of his limp, just a tightness to his jaw as he pauses at the doorway. "Hardison?"

"You should be good, Dr. Ross, your shift's over." He looks once more at his phone and sighs. "Alarms've been reset, guards'll be heading back. Think we all need to amscray."

Parker cocks her head and her mouth opens. Hardison shakes his head with affectionate annoyance. "Scram, Parker. It means we gotta go."

"But that's not what you said…"

Hardison gives her back a pat, then pushes her towards the door. She reaches out, gives Nate's foot a squeeze. "I hope you feel better soon, Nate. Sorry, but, um – I think we're still gonna try to get you out." She bites her lip, then smiles. "No hard feelings?"

Nate feels a small smile of his own form, this time without effort and it feels natural. "Never, Parker."

Her grin broadens and she rushes to the door, following Eliot out into the hall.

"I'd tell you to look out for yourself, Nate, but I think you got that covered," Hardison says with a shake of his head. "We won't abandon you…."

The unspoken 'like you're trying to abandon us' lingers for a moment. But then the hacker smiles and grabs his mop. "In the meantime, ol' Rudy's got you covered." He pops the earbuds back in place and pushes the bucket with his foot with each unheard beat until he too is gone.

Sophie's tears have been wiped away, every hair is in place, her makeup still flawless. But her eyes betray her. Wide, wet, a little wild, as she struggles to maintain her outer composure. "You have some thinking to do, Nathan. You'll need to consider your actions and their repercussions. Think on it. And be careful, _please_. Your mouth tends to get you in trouble, and I don't think you can take much more of it."

Before Nate can utter a word of reply her lips are on his. The kiss is brief but intense and he's left gasping as she pulls away. "Think on that as well," she adds with a wink before sauntering out of the room.

Nate watches her, that little sashay she puts into each step, considers the taste of her gloss on his dry lips. And realizes he does have some serious thinking to do.


End file.
